Justin Pitre sat on a rickety camp porch, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, and gazed out at the stillness of a new day. He pulled up the collar of his rust-colored fleece jacket to ward off the early-morning chill. He had been up since 4 a.m.
He still declined to believe that he was actually an outlaw on the run. He favored the theory that he, Roulin, and Grace were just lying low while the storm blew over.
But the storm showed no sign of abating.
What the hell have I done?
He had fleetingly allowed himself to consider, with a deeply private glee, how Tom Huff must have received the news that the dragline had been toppled, and how utterly outraged he must have been when he connected Justin to the deed. But these thoughts were quickly smothered in the overpowering remorse he felt for the grief this had brought Grace, and the breach of trust it represented in their marriage.
Besides, Justin really didn't want to go to jail. The thought shocked him.
This camp—a spare, dilapidated one-room shack on stilts—stood on a two-acre inholding in a vast and remote tract of state marsh and swamp known as the Terrebonne Point Wildlife Reserve, about twenty miles west of Crawfish Mountain. Except for a sole park ranger who patrolled vast distances looking for poachers, and a cousin of Roulin's, who had inherited the camp and surrounding swampy tract from his father, few people knew the camp existed.
Justin, Grace, and Roulin had retreated here, at Roulin's urging, after Grace had come to Crawfish Mountain bearing the news of the visit from Juke Charpentier and Boogie Trosclair. (Grace had omitted Boogie's attempted siege of the house for fear of sending Justin into an unhelpful rage. And Gris-Gris turned out to only have been stunned; the tough little swamp mutt had made a remarkable recovery in the boat as Grace had motored to the camp.)
After arriving here, Roulin had gone, using the Pitres’ smaller boat, to his cousin's place, a boat launch and bar at the end of a lonesome shell road about five miles away. He would spend the night there while undertaking a reconnaissance, hoping a phone call to Gary Harmon would pay dividends. Perhaps Gary could sleuth among his courthouse sources to see whether they were indeed wanted.
This decision to flee, however, came only after a spectacular confrontation. The stricken look on Grace's face when she'd arrived at the Crawfish Mountain dock told Justin all he needed to know. She'd collapsed sobbing into his arms; Justin had apologized and fessed up—told the story in all its awful detail, down to the number of beers he'd drunk before he'd gone down and opened the ballast valve; told of his awful miscalculation of the depth of the water there (forgetting about a sinkhole that lay off the edge of the shell reef where the monster lay at anchor); and of the sick feeling in his stomach when he and Roulin, trailing the Hebert Oil Field crewboat, saw the dragline actually topple.
He made it clear to Grace that it was he, not Roulin, who had acted irresponsibly.
And then he'd had the good sense to stand silently while Grace's tears turned to fury. He'd never seen his wife so angry. While poor Roulin retreated to the back side of the camp, Grace lashed Justin with words that cut like barbed wire. He knew his only hope was to throw himself on the mercy of Grace's court and hope that she would eventually forgive him.
They'd slept apart that night while Grace churned through her feelings. Between surges of rage and grief, she finally came to a moment of clarity. The man she loved with all her heart was in serious trouble. He'd done a ter rible, reckless thing, but he'd been goaded by horrible people. He needed her, and this was no time to get cold feet.
In the morning, she'd awakened Justin with a kiss and said, “You've been a bad boy, Justin Pitre. A bad, bad boy. No monkey love for thirty days, at least. But if you're going to jail, I'm going with you.”
Justin had taken his wife into his arms and cried.
Still, as his predicament sank in, it had an unreal quality. Besides dragging Roulin and Grace into his mess, he knew his parents and friends, when they found out, would be mortified. True, Wilson Pitre had admonished his son to do what he had to do to stop the dredging. But Justin was pretty sure Wilson didn't mean monkey-wrenching a dragline.
His first instinct, after a day here, had been to turn himself in, plead innocent, hire Gary Harmon, and try to beat the rap. There was a lot to work with: the drunken mechanic; Purvis, the pathetic kid, who was likely to make an utterly unreliable witness. But Justin knew he wasn't one of those people who lied easily or well. And, anyway, it would just be plain wrong to take advantage of poor Purvis more than he already had.
Beyond that, Grace had vetoed the idea of a quick surrender. Surely, she had said, there was another way?
Justin had declined to argue with his wife when he recognized how fiercely she wished to protect him. But it was hard to see what the other way might be.
Well, maybe Roulin would be back soon with some news.
He drained his coffee mug and stood, stretching stiffness from his bones from a restless night spent on a sagging mattress. He turned and tiptoed as quietly as he could into the cramped shack for a second cup. He found Grace awake, lounging under a ragged patchwork quilt that they'd used as a cover against the November chill.
She smiled a dreamy smile and beckoned Justin to her. Justin smiled back, put down his coffee cup, and settled in on the edge of the bed. He loved the childlike look on his wife's face when she first awakened. Grace pulled him down to her with warm hands and kissed him deeply on the mouth. “Poor cher,” she whispered. “Couldn't sleep?”
Justin nuzzled deep into Grace's neck, touched by her sudden tenderness. “Nah. That damned ole bed just about killed me.”
“Oh, cher, I took the good side. Sorry.”
“Nah, babe, don't worry about it. You deserved the good side.”
“Beautiful. I'll bet the reds are stirrin’.”
Grace raised herself up on an elbow. “Well, we could fish, cher. We got tackle.”
“Ah, it don't seem right. An outlaw ain't supposed to fish. An outlaw is supposed to keep an eye out for the law. Here I am, Clyde, and I've turned you into Bonnie.”
Grace smiled. “Justin, baby, we're not Bonnie and Clyde. You didn't kill anybody. It's a piece of machinery. There are a lot of draglines in the world.”
“Too many, I'd say.”
“Well, it's gonna work out, trust me.”
Justin was trying to form some sort of optimistic reply when they heard the unmistakable thrum of an outboard motor in the far distance.
“Probably Roulin,” said Grace, sitting up, “but I guess we shouldn't take any chances.” She sprang from the bed, dressing quickly. “Hmm, where are my sneakers? You seen 'em?”
“Under the bed. But Grace, cher, don't worry about your sneakers. If it's the law instead of Roulin, we're caught. What we gonna do? There's only one way out of this bayou.”
“Not true,” said Grace. “We could head up that trainasse behind the cabin in that old pirogue behind the shack. Ain't no motorboat gonna follow us through there. It's too shallow.”
“Yeah, well, Roulin says that li'l slough dead-ends about a mile away. They could paddle in after us, and then we'd be trapped.”
“And then we'd run through the marsh. Hell, you've seen Go-Boy Geaux's deputies. Most of 'em weigh about three hundred pounds. They'd never catch us.”
“True. But they could take target practice. And Grace, when's the last time you tried to run through the marsh, especially the marsh around here? That's all floton out there. We'd be up to our asses in no time. And it's cold out there.”
“Justin, baby,” Grace said, smiling, “what kinda outlaw are you, anyway?”
Justin reluctantly returned the smile. “Well, I'm glad one of us finds this funny.”
Sensing a trace of defeat in his voice, Grace embraced him, her head plopping against his chest. “Aw, Justin, it's gonna be all right, really. We'll find a way.”
“Okay, Bonnie,” he replied. “If you say so.” He snuggled tighter against the warmth of his wife for a moment, then cocked an ear toward the sound of the approaching boat. “That's Roulin. I can tell the hum of our Evinrude from a mile away.”
Five minutes later, Roulin Lasseine arrived at the rickety dock, accepting a hand from Justin as he alighted from the boat.
“How y'all doin’ out here in the lap of luxury?”
“It's a place without bars around it,” said Grace, “and that's a good thing. I got some hot coffee for you, Roulin. I believe you take it black, with two sugars, yes?”
“Good memory,” said Roulin, “and I sure could use a cup of coffee. I slept on the floor of my cuz's gator-skinnin’ shed. Gator hides are comfortable, but they don't smell so good.”
They settled onto the cramped front porch, Justin on his upturned bucket, Grace on a battered cooler, and Roulin on a wire crab trap that had been ingeniously turned into a chair with the skillful positioning of a few two-byfours.
“So, what's the news, podnah?” asked Justin. “Our posters on the post office wall yet?”
Roulin took a long, slow sip of coffee and nodded. “Well, I talked to Gary Harmon twice, the last time at eight-thirty last night. He says Go-Boy and his men are lookin’ for us but it's all hush-hush. Nuttin’ about the dragline has made the paper, and supposedly the sheriff has agreed to deliver us to Tom Huff before takin’ us to jail. Now, I wonder what good ole Tom's got in mind for us, Justin?”
Grace endured a silent shudder. She immediately thought of the intimidating Boogie—and his wounded ear and pride—and whether he would be part of the welcoming party.
“Ah, he's too much of a coward to lay a hand on us himself,” said Justin. “I'm guessin’ he'll have Go-Boy's goons slap us around, then go for public humiliation—get us dragged down Main Street in handcuffs, something like that.”
Roulin nodded. “Sounds about right. But Li'l Huff-'n’-Puff might be in for some public humiliation himself soon. I've kinda buried the news, but get this, Gary says some documents have leaked outta Huff 's office—some incriminating stuff. He says they might help my case—and yours.”
“My case?” said Justin. “How?”
Roulin shrugged. “I honestly don't know. Gary didn't want to talk about it over the phone. But he thinks y'all should go in to see him ASAP, and if you want my opinion, I think so, too. Grace, he did pick up your message and called back, but you must've been outta cell phone range by then. But he's put two and two together, and he's rarin’ to go.”
Grace turned to Justin. “Roulin's right, cher. We can't sit out here forever. But you shouldn't go, I should. I'm not wanted for anything. The most they could do is bring me in for questioning.”
Justin shook his head. “I dunno, Grace. If you're dragged in and you lie, you become part of the case. Then our mess just gets deeper.”
“I don't have to lie,” said Grace. “I don't have to say anything at all until I call my lawyer. Like Roulin said, Gary's rarin’ to go.”
Justin put his hand on his chin as if to reinforce some thought, then said, “Okay, I still don't like it, but go. But if you're not back in twenty-four hours, I'm comin’ to look for you.”
“And I'm comin’ with him,” Roulin chimed in.
“Good to know you boys will miss me,” Grace replied. “Now, how should I get there? Take one of our boats?”
“No,” said Roulin. “They're probably lookin’ for your boats, plus it'll be a lot quicker if you go by road. My cuz will give you a lift. I'll run you up to his landing. Besides, he's got the world's junkiest van, and there ain't nobody gonna be lookin’ for you in that thing.”
“I'm sure I've ridden in worse,” said Grace.
Roulin laughed. “I'm sure you ain't. And make sure you sit in the backseat. My cuz cut out all the seat belts about six years ago 'cause he don't believe in seat belts.”
“Good to know,” Grace said.
Justin looked worried.
“Aw, cher, don't worry,” said Grace, “I'm gonna be fine, promise.”
“Fine, Grace,” Justin replied. “Just don't do anything crazy.”
“Like what?” she said, nudging her husband. “Sink a dragline? I think that trick's already been used up.”
Roulin laughed. And finally Justin did, too.